


The Secondary Waltz

by imachar



Series: The Weight of a Man [14]
Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Angst, Fisting, Light BDSM, M/M, Rimming, Watersports (mild)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-26
Updated: 2012-03-26
Packaged: 2017-11-02 13:18:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/369388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imachar/pseuds/imachar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A wedding (or two) and a trip to the Enterprise mean Chris needs to de-stress, but can he and Phil ever recover what they had before the Narada?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Secondary Waltz

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd as always by the amazing zauzat...

“Dammit Len, stop fidgeting and stand still. It was tied just fine before you started fucking with it.” Phil Boyce is making a series of adjustments to the deep red silk tie that McCoy has managed to fiddle with until the knot is loose and misshapen. With an impatient tug Phil gets the knot back into order and then smooths out an almost imperceptible wrinkle in the collar of McCoy’s dress shirt before standing back to declare. “Perfect. Now if you touch it again I’m going to tie your hands behind your back.”

McCoy glares at him for a moment until Phil raises an eyebrow and bestows _that_ look on him; the one that has quelled hundreds of smart-assed medical students and more than a few CMOs over the years and McCoy backs down. He shuffles his feet, his dress shoes polished to a high shine, and probably not nearly as comfortable, Phil thinks, as his own that are old and well worn and were expensive enough when he bought them that he’d had to think seriously about the outlay of credits even on a Commander’s salary. He lays a hand on McCoy’s shoulder, reassurance and support in the touch, squeezing a little as he feels the tension in the broad muscles beneath his hand. 

“You’re going to be fine. Just relax and take a deep breath. Everything is ready – Jo has the rings right?” 

McCoy nods sharply. “Yeah, Win gave them to her right before we left the apartment.” 

“Good – then there’s nothing to worry about. You’re here, the chaplain’s here.” He nods his head towards the door to the main chapel. “The guests are here, even Jim is here. We’re good to go as soon as Nyota gives the signal.” 

And as he takes his next breath the door opens and Uhura appears, a vision in a claret silk sheath that matches the waistcoats and ties of the men, and grins at them. 

“Okay, guys, it’s show time. Len, you ready to get married?” 

McCoy rolls his eyes at his honor attendant and Phil laughs quietly as he reaches out to give him a slight shove to get him moving. “Come on Len, I’m sure Jim’s just as nervous as you are.” 

Phil looks to the far side of the nave as he follows McCoy into the body of the chapel and grins at Chris who is sitting in the front row of the Kirk side of the aisle. Phil had felt a little odd at first, that he was a participant in the wedding when Chris was so close to Jim. But, Jim has family. They’re standing with him now, Sam at his side, so like George that it makes Phil marvel at the power of genetics, and Win slightly behind his right shoulder, the three of them waiting for McCoy, Nyota and Phil to take their positions on the other side of the chaplain. 

McCoy on the other hand is alone, but for the ten-year-old girl with the dark curls and sweet smile who is currently standing in the aisle by the first pew, quivering with excitement in her pearl-white dress and red sash. Phil winks at Jo and she gives him a slightly covert wrinkle-nosed grin as she opens her hand to show him the little silk purse that holds the rings. He gives her a thumbs-up in return and then casts a look back down the length of the chapel. 

The SkyRose Chapel is the larger of the two non-denominational places of worship on the Starfleet Campus. A stunning construction of redwood, fir, and oak, it had originally been built at the Rose Hills Memorial Park in Whittier and had been relocated to the Presidio from its southern California location shortly after Starfleet had been founded in the early 22nd century. It has soaring, steeply angled timbers and what looks like a hectare of glass, along with a flagstone floor and intricately carved woodwork, that are all perfectly in context with the forested setting and the views over the cliffs to Baker Beach and the Pacific Ocean. 

The long, narrow space is not quite filled to capacity this afternoon, but at this moment all two hundred-or-so guests are focused on the wedding party and when Phil turns his attention back to McCoy he can feel the tension radiating off him. The chaplain is taking a moment to find the appropriate text on his PADD and Phil uses the brief respite to lay his hand on McCoy’s back. Leaning in to whisper, “Take a breath and look at Jim – right now he’s the most important thing in the room.” 

Phil feels some of the stiffness in McCoy’s spine ease slightly as they both look across to Jim who is grinning, bright and joyous and so utterly confident that McCoy chuffs a quiet laugh. “Damn if that’s not his “time for another adventure” look. Always gets us in trouble.” 

“Best adventure you’re ever going to have, Len, trust me.” 

Then Uhura taps McCoy on the elbow, indicating that it’s time to pay attention to the chaplain and Phil gives him one last pat on the back before he turns to take his place in the front pew stealing a last glance at Chris before Win sits down and blocks his line of sight. 

*****

“Dance with me?” Phil is leaning back against a corner of the mahogany bar that stretches along one wall of the Crown Room at the top of the Fairmont Hotel. Finished with one martini and not quite ready for another one yet he lays his glass aside and traces the fingers of his free hand lightly up the back of Chris’s. 

From this quiet corner they are both watching the crowd, the throng of guests from the ceremony now swollen by at least the same number again and all of them in motion, the dark suits, bright dresses and the ubiquitous gold, crimson and sapphire of Starfleet mess-dress uniforms animating the otherwise slightly formal space of the function room. Chris’s focus is on the couples that have occupied the dance floor, his body swaying almost imperceptibly to the soft, bluesy sound of the five-piece band and Phil’s request clearly catches him by surprise. 

The band has reached that point in the evening where everything they play is slow and seductive, a not-so-subtle acknowledgement that the twosomes, and scattered moresomes, that are still occupying the floor will inevitably end the evening engaged in much more intimate endeavors. 

He turns with a puzzled frown that suggests that he thinks he’s hearing things. “What?” 

“Dance with me, darling boy.” Phil straightens up now that he has Chris’s full attention, pushing away from the bar and stifling a smirk as Chris almost stutters with shock. 

“Phil, we don’t dance together, not in public.” 

“Maybe it’s time to change that.” Phil steps a little closer, molding his body to Chris’s, sliding a hand over the curve of his ass, up under the jacket of the suit until it’s resting on his waist, fingers stroking a delicate pattern on the soft Egyptian cotton of the dress shirt. 

Phil hesitates, the rest of the room graying out for a moment, as he’s captivated by Chris’s proximity. Close enough to feel his heat, to see the tiny flecks of gun-metal gray in the pale blue of his eyes and the barest shadow of late-evening stubble on his cheek, and above all, close enough to be immersed in the familiar, incredibly enticing, scent that is one part expensive cologne and nine parts pure Chris. 

It is _bliss_. 

Phil has always been profoundly aroused by the way Chris smells, but up until a few months ago the lingering toxins from the centaurian slug had tainted everything he excreted with a faintly acidic metal odor. Now that they’ve finally been shed from his system he smells like Chris again and Phil is grateful for once that he’s getting older and isn’t likely to find himself sporting an inconvenient erection in front of half of Starfleet Command, because _fuck_ he is seriously turned on right now. 

A raised eyebrow from Chris snaps Phil back into the moment and, despite the skepticism in his eyes, the slight upturn at one side of his mouth indicates that Chris is intrigued by Phil’s suggestion. With just the slightest smile Phil turns his head in the direction of the dance floor, a twitch of his eyebrow hinting that Chris should follow his gaze. Because Chris is right, of course, they’ve never danced in public, both wary of revealing too much about the intricate subtleties of power and dominance that have bound them together for so long. 

But there, in the center of the dance floor, the young captain of the Enterprise, hero of the Federation, master of the fleet’s flagship, is swaying slowly in the arms of his new husband. His face is tucked into the curve of McCoy’s neck, head resting on his shoulder as they move to the seductive thrum of 23rd century blues and Phil lifts an eyebrow as if to say, “If they can do it…” 

The look he gets in return is still slightly skeptical. “You sure?” Chris acknowledging that it’s at least partly Phil’s reticence issues that keeps them from engaging in such overt demonstrations of affection. 

“I’m sure. Come on, sweetheart, you love this song, and I know you move beautifully to it.” And Phil smiles as Chris’s face softens, his capitulation evident in the hand that he extends, and even more in the way he swings his body round, stepping backwards onto the dance floor. 

“Okay.” And Chris’s grin is slightly rueful as he admits. “I hate it when that little shit is more mature than I am.” 

Phil is surprised when Chris curls into him, bending so that he can let his forehead come to rest on a broad shoulder, sighing with content as Phil strokes long fingers into his hair and curves them around the back of his skull, holding him in place. The two of them settle into a familiar, but customarily very private, embrace that clearly telegraphs, at least to anyone who is conversant with such things, _everything_ about the power dynamics of their relationship. 

This is _exactly_ why they don’t dance in public, Chris’s tendency to subconsciously surrender to Phil lends him a vulnerability that sits uneasily with his rank and position. It’s a vulnerability that belies Chris’s public persona; his hard-driving, son-of-a-bitch façade that keeps cadets and captains, and even the occasional full-rank admiral, in line. But as they move across the floor, bodies in intimate, almost unconscious, rhythm Phil can only suppose that this is another of the many things that have changed since the Narada. In the twenty-two months since life went to fuck above Vulcan they’ve been to hell and back and if they’ve learned anything it’s that life is too damn short to sweat the small stuff – apparently, in the last few minutes, Chris has reclassified dancing in public as “small stuff”. 

“Such a gorgeous boy.” Phil keeps stroking his fingers through Chris’s hair as they move and tightens them a fraction when Chris laughs quietly and moves his lips in a slow tease along Phil’s throat. 

“One day you’re going to realize I’m not twenty-five anymore.” 

“Nah, you’re always going to be twenty-five to me.” Phil shifts his hips slightly, brushing against the solid heat of a stirring cock and pulls Chris’s head up to look him in the eye. 

“Been a while since you’ve managed that.” And then grins at the rising flush that darkens Chris’s face. They’re both well aware that they’ve reached an age where arousal isn't automatically accompanied by a physical response and usually it takes more than casual contact to get either of them hard. Recovering his equilibrium Chris pulls Phil a little closer, giving him the benefit of the full length of his erection pressed hard against his hip. 

“I might not be twenty-five, but I’ve sure as fuck recovered enough for this.” And a broad hand splays against the small of Phil’s back, holding him in place as Chris moves his hips in a slow grind that only the most generous observer could classify as “dancing”. It’s Phil’s turn to flush and he can feel the heat in his face as his own cock responds to the entirely unsubtle tease. Chris’s eyes are wide with need and bright with a flagrant challenge and Phil turns his head to the side, catching his breath as he tries to will away the rising tide of arousal. 

Looking towards the bar he can see the remnants of the Enterprise’s command crew, the unattached ones at least – Spock and Uhura are long gone – clustered around Scotty who seems to be directing some kind of intricate drinking game. The guests of honor are also long gone, the room slowly clearing as the hour gets late and as Phil turns back and looks over Chris’s shoulder he finds himself pinned by a glare from Komack who is clearly not pleased that more than a few of Command’s senior officers are engaging in very public displays of affection. 

“I think it’s time for us to retire for the night.” His voice is a whisper against Chris’s ear and, still fighting the subtle rush of arousal, he has to clear his throat before he can go on. “Komack looks like he’s about to hit us with a conduct-unbecoming charge.” 

“Oh fuck him, I’m enjoying myself.” 

“I think the problem might be that fucking isn’t on the cards for him tonight.” 

That makes Chris laugh, and the easy delight of the sound makes Phil grin despite himself – that kind of open, blithe joy has been entirely too rare in their lives over the last few years. 

“Not my problem.” Chris curves a hand around Phil’s jawline, thumb stroking the soft bristle of his mustache and then, before he can even think of resisting, Phil finds himself drawn into a long and openly wanton kiss. He’s stunned for just a second and then relaxes, suspecting that this is Chris’s way of sending a “fuck-you” to Komack, and content to go along with it. It’s an inadequate, but nonetheless satisfying, payback for all the shit that Command, often at Komack’s behest, has put both of them through in recent months. 

“They come out of the kiss a little breathless but Chris still has enough voice to whisper, close to Phil’s ear. “Time to go occupy that very expensive room downstairs because I’m in the mood to fuck you until neither of us can walk.” 

The little jolt of electric need that sparks up Phil’s spine makes him draw a sharp breath and then he smirks. “So, you think you’re in control tonight?” 

Slate to denim, each holds the other’s gaze until Phil realizes that Chris is serious, and with a lifted eyebrow he strokes his hand gently down Chris’s cheek and capitulates. “Okay, you’re in control.” He’s not quite sure what Chris has planned, but Phil trusts Chris to know what he wants; to know what he needs and what he can handle physically and emotionally. So much of the last two years has been a delicate dance of demonstrating that trust in the hope that they will eventually recover the deeper, darker, soul-binding foundation of dominance and submission that has been at the core of their relationship for so long. 

**** 

Pinned by one strong hand wrapped expertly around his wrists, pressed hard against the wall of the shower, Phil stares evenly back at Chris, whose eyes are dark with a barely contained, almost dangerously reckless, lust. A long moment of silence is broken only by the whisper of water from the steam-head hitting the tile and the slightly too rapid susurration of Chris’s breathing. And as a strong thigh presses between his legs, nudging at the thickening swell of his erection, Phil is wracked with a thrum of heat and something approaching relief. Now he knows what this is about. 

Phil can read Chris, knows every look and gesture and tilt of his head and he understands exactly why Chris is pausing in this moment – stroking a hand around the back of Phil’s neck and leaning in to rest their foreheads together, seeking an unspoken and very rarely sought permission. This is an integral, if largely unacknowledged part of the games they play. For almost twenty years Chris has trusted Phil with a part of himself that no-one else has ever seen, has given him, on occasion, his complete and total submission – and has done it entirely voluntarily. The proof of that deliberate gift in the knowledge that both of them share – that Chris has always been stronger than Phil, always better trained and every single time Phil takes him down it’s Chris’s choice. 

And then Chris had spent fourteen hours in the company of a psychotic Romulan and for much of the last twenty-two months he couldn’t have held his own against the rawest Academy recruit, and in that time neither of them has dared to approach the potential emotional and physical minefield of dominance and submission. If they are to get that back then it’s vital for Chris to test his strength, to prove to both of them that he is once more in a position to give the gift of voluntary surrender. 

Phil leans in and whispers his response, his mouth tracing softly over the burn of stubble at Chris’ throat. “Fuck me. Give me everything you’ve got.” And he shivers at the low sound of impatient desire that breaks free as Chris presses back harder and groans. “Here, now, up against the wall.” 

A little surprised that Chris is going for an up-against-the-wall fuck – they haven’t attempted that since long before the Narada, both of them increasingly aware of the toll that age is taking on spines and hips and knees – Phil only just manages to not ask if Chris is sure. Instead he slides his hand down the furred curve of Chris’s abdomen and curls it around the twitching length of his cock, his voice low and slightly rough as he groans. “Fuck, yes. Go for it.” Oddly enough, given the hell of abuse and violence that had marred his adolescence, Phil really does like the rare occasions when Chris unleashes his full power, when he makes it abundantly clear that he is in control. 

A tremble vibrates through Chris’s frame as he uses the powerful muscles of his back and shoulders to hoist Phil back against the tile. For a moment they pause and Phil can see the fierce joy in Chris’s face as he realizes that he really does have the strength for this. Phil wraps one leg high around Chris’s hip, encouraging him to press closer and they lean into a long, profoundly intense kiss. Phil surrenders as Chris slides his tongue deep, and he can’t remember the last time he was this turned on this fast, his cock aching as it rubs briskly against the light trace of wiry hair that trails down beneath Chris’s navel. He groans as Chris finally releases him with a sharp nip to his lower lip and takes a quick breath as his wrists are squeezed firmly and pressed against the wall. 

“Don’t move them.” And then Chris releases his grip, sliding first one and then the other hand down Phil’s arms, over the smooth curve of his shoulders, and across the breadth of his chest, fingers trailing through the cover of silver fur. 

Phil keeps very, very still, watching as Chris gives him a fierce, feral grin before he drops his head and licks a wet stripe up Phil’s neck, tongue flicking against the soft hollow beneath the point of his jaw for a moment. Teeth fasten gently on the soft flesh of his earlobe and Phil has to stifle a whimper as Chris whispers softly. 

“I’m going to fuck you, just like this, up against the wall, until I come.” One hand has found its target, wrapping firmly around Phil’s cock, squeezing rhythmically, and the other has found purchase under Phil’s thigh, lifting until the leg that was wrapped around Chris’s hip is now around his waist, a position that leaves Phil spread wide and vulnerable as the tip of Chris’s cock slides along his perineum and up along the cleft of his ass. “Then I’m going to take you to bed and fuck you with my tongue until I’m hard again, and then I’m going slide into you and fuck you until _you_ come.” 

Phil’s whole body spasms at the thought and his fingers clench tightly enough to leave crescents of sharp pain on his palms. “Fuck, yes.” And then he shudders, his breath hitching in a sharp gasp as that thick cockhead nudges against the tight, furled muscle that guards the entrance to his body. 

“That feel good? Hmmm? You want me in you?” Chris pulls Phil in a little closer, his cock pressing deeper, stretching the fluttering muscle until the burn of it steals Phil’s breath and makes his heart race. A brief shiver of fear skitters up his spine. He really, really doesn't like being fucked dry – with little or no stretching, sure, but not without lube. He doesn’t get off on pain, certainly not this kind, and it takes a real effort of will to calm his breathing and get his pulse to settle. The long moment of silence lengthens as they watch each other, one predatory, the other wary until Chris breaks the silence with a whisper. “What if that’s what I want? I could you know. I could hold you here, push deep and fuck you until you scream.” 

Phil takes a breath, the threat – the one that wasn’t ever really there to begin with – defused by the simple act of Chris voicing it, and in the knowledge that he’s safe, Phil capitulates. “What ever you want. Whatever you need.” 

For just the briefest second a look of utter devotion fleets across Chris’s face and then he grins, feral and predatory once again and reaches with his free hand – the one that’s not committing indecent acts on Phil’s cock – to the wash kit that’s hanging by the showerhead. He pulls out a blister pack of lube and opens it with his teeth, sliding his hand down to spread the slippery gel on his prick. One finger, slick and teasing, presses alongside the thick cock, tracing a tormenting path around the flexing hole, rubbing firmly without ever actually penetrating. 

After a slow, torturous tease, Chris finally lines up his cock, seating the head firmly into the shallow indent of Phil’s asshole and then hoists Phil a little higher up the wall, forcing him up onto his toes until Phil reaches up and grabs the shower head, grateful that it seems to be firmly attached. 

Pulling Phil down even as he presses up with his hips, Chris leans in to whisper, rough and filthy. “Now I’m going to fuck you raw.” 

For a long moment Phil’s body resists the intrusion and then he relaxes and groans as Chris slides deep in a single long, slow, self-indulgent shove. Even with a generous slather of lube the thick heat burns going in and Phil quakes with a sudden deep shudder, his eyes fluttering closed as Chris pauses for a second, a deep groan wrung out of him as Phil bears down and takes the final centimeter. Then, with a shift of his stance to secure his balance Chris begins to thrust hard and fast. It’s abundantly clear that he’s going for a speed-record. Even if he hadn’t already announced that Phil was going to have to wait until the second round to come, the robust pace that he’s setting pretty much guarantees that this is going to be over far faster than Phil can get off, especially when the only attention his cock is getting is the rough brush of Chris’s abdomen every time he thrusts up and in. Although, Phil reflects in a brief moment of lucidity, it’s probably just as well, because he can’t imagine that either of them is going to manage to remain upright against this wall for very much longer. 

Still, he enjoys it while it lasts. They so rarely fuck without the goal of mutual orgasm that Phil has almost forgotten the pleasure to be had in watching Chris, as he gets close. His own arousal is only faintly distracting, a sharp jolt of sensation every time that thick prick slides deep, leaving him free to concentrate on every whimper and groan, every flicker of need that animates Chris’s face. The way his eyes shutter closed and then flash open to reveal pale blue-gray, such a narrow ring around pupils, black and blown with lust. 

“You are so fucking gorgeous.” Phil wraps his hand around one flexed bicep to stop himself from sliding against the wall, the friction of skin on tile burning with each sharp punch of Chris’s hips. With a grunt of exertion Chris picks up the pace even further, hammering the full length of his cock up into Phil with each thrust. 

“Fuck, you feel good – so fucking tight, like you’re made for my cock – like you’ve always been made for me, just for me. Fuck, you’re going to make me come, so deep in you you’re going to fucking _taste_ it.” And with one last burst of energy Chris jackhammers his hips until he arcs back with a shout that sounds like equal parts triumph and relief and then comes with a long, low, quaking growl. Now he’s pressed hard against Phil, one hand braced on the wall for balance, the other gripped tight around Phil’s hip and Phil knows there will be bruises in the morning. Even without the relief of an orgasm he’s shaking with exertion and he sags against the tile as Chris leans into him for a long time. 

The first indication that Chris has recovered is a gentle squeeze at his hip and the slow slide of a softening cock as he pulls out. Phil can’t quite contain a wince, the movement, slow as it is, burning against the ever so slightly abused sphincter. 

“You okay?” Chris’s voice is still rough with exertion and he strokes his fingers down into the cleft of Phil’s ass, fingertips lightly exploring the slightly swollen flesh. 

“I’m fine, just fine.” Phil nudges Chris into an indulgent, lazy kiss and then laughs softly. “I just need a little recovery time.” 

Pulling back Chris rests his forehead against Phil’s and grins roguishly. “Turn and face the wall. I’ll make you feel _all_ better.” 

Legs still shaking slightly Phil wonders if he should remind Chris that they could take this to bed and at least avail themselves of a horizontal surface. But then he feels the heat of Chris’s breath against his skin, the scrape of teeth on the inside of one ass cheek and then, suddenly, every synapse is fried as Chris slides his tongue against the tender muscle. The flicker of wet heat makes Phil whine and then bite down hard on his own forearm to stifle the howl of need as the tongue breaches him and slides deep into his still loosened hole. 

****

They do eventually make it to bed, with just enough energy left for Chris to make good on his promise to fuck Phil until he comes. It’s slow and easy and deeply intimate as Chris does all the work and when Phil finally comes, in a spray of wet heat that spatters up across Chris’s chest they’re both wrung out, collapsing onto the mattress in a tangle of damp, sticky limbs. 

“Later, we can clean up later.” Phil pants softly into the crook of Chris’s neck and smiles when the only response is a gentle squeeze of his fingers. 

It’s a good half hour before Phil manages to roll out of bed and go in search of a washcloth, returning to Chris’s side to accomplish the most rudimentary wash-down and then retiring to take care of himself. When he’s done he pauses for a moment, leaning on the frame of the door to the bathroom and watching Chris, assessing whether he’s exhausted or just blissfully fucked-out. Phil has been very, very good at not doctoring Chris over the last year and a half. Unless it has been absolutely necessary he has backed away from monitoring Chris’s condition, from administering medication and even from keeping track of his medical appointments, and their relationship has been the better for his ability to back off and be a partner rather than a physician. 

Now Phil smiles as he watches Chris stretched out across the huge bed in an elegant sprawl, motionless but for the slow rise and fall of his back, legs tangled in the sheets, eyes closed. He could almost be asleep until he stretches and turns to face Phil, eyes slitting open as he smiles, slow, sexy and utterly content. “Fuck, I feel good.” 

And in that moment Phil relaxes completely, perhaps for the first time in almost two years. If that extended session of athletic fucking didn’t render Chris catatonic with exhaustion then he really is recovered. He certainly looks as robust and vital as he ever has, not that the physical and emotional toll of his recovery hasn’t aged him; it’s aged both of them, quite noticeably. The silver that had just begun to encroach into the gray in Chris’s sideburns is now entrenched all the way to his temples and has spread from the center of his chest half way to his navel. The lines around his eyes are deeper and there is a furrow almost permanently engraved between his eyebrows, but his body is shaped and honed from months of diligently executed physical therapy and while he might have shed some three or four kilos of muscle mass he’s clearly strong and powerful and every bit as dynamic as he was before Nero’s assault on his nervous system. 

Just to prove the point Chris rolls over and stretches again, flexing his body in one long arc as he draws his hand up the furred concave of his stomach and rubs it idly across his chest. 

“You look good.” Phil pushes off the doorframe and heads for the bed. “Damn Chris, I know I said your days of personal bests were probably behind you, but fuck if I might be wrong.” 

“You going to let me enter the Academy marathon this year?” 

“Don’t push your luck.” Phil stretches out on the mattress next to Chris and rubs his hand firmly across the ridged muscles of his stomach, up into the thick, soft fur of his chest, playing with the curls even as he changes the subject. 

“You regret we didn’t do this? The whole family-friends and half-of-fucking-Star Fleet thing?” 

“You are _kidding_ me.” Chris leans towards Phil and lifts his left hand from where it’s resting on his chest, bringing it to his mouth and gently kissing the palm before pressing his lips to the thick chased white gold band on Phil’s left ring finger. “What we did was just about fucking perfect.” 

“Just about?” 

Chris laughs; quiet and a little embarrassed “Yeah, well the fight over the blowjob wasn’t exactly our finest hour.” 

“Hmm, stubborn son of a bitch.” Phil slides his thumb along the soft swell of Chris’s lower lip, fingers stroking gently up the slightly stubbled jawline. 

“Pot – kettle.” Chris nips at the thumb as it comes into range, teeth worrying the skin gently. 

“Yeah, well, it turned out just fine.” And Phil rolls up against Chris’s side and pulls him into a long, slow, sweet kiss, one hand sliding down to curl around the soft heat of Chris’s quiescent cock, reminding both of them of exactly how they’d settled the argument that night. 

Marriage had been another of the unexpected after-effects of the new reality that was life after Vulcan. After fifteen years of avoiding even the mention of making their partnership legally permanent they had finally acknowledged that the only way they could guarantee that Starfleet wasn’t going to post Phil half way across the quadrant was to just bite the bullet and file partnership papers. A decision that had led to a profoundly unromantic declaration from Chris that he wasn’t going to go to all that trouble to file papers that would have to be renewed every five years and why didn’t they just make it permanent. 

In the light of their mutual pragmatism and, more to the point, the desire to avoid the rabid attentions of the popular press, they had ended up getting married very, very quietly. Eager to cover every piece of news, professional or personal that related to any of the heroes who had survived the Battle of Vulcan and deprived of their principal targets, the very young and photogenic crew of the Enterprise who had departed for a shakedown cruise some months before, the tabloid press would have made their lives miserable if the wedding had been public. So, with just two witnesses and the Chief JAG officiating, they had married at the small summerhouse on the hill above Fort Point and then they’d celebrated with a weekend at a remote hot spring resort in the northern Sierras. 

The weather perfect, the food outstanding and the thermal baths unbelievably relaxing, especially for Chris who was still in thrice weekly, intensive physical therapy, the only flaw in the weekend had been Chris’ insistence that one of them was going to have an orgasm on their wedding night. Since he was on almost cardio-toxic doses of SSRI’s and beta-blockers to try to manage his PTSD it wasn’t going to be Chris, still months away from being able to manage anything approaching normal sexual function. Phil however, had very definite ideas about being on the receiving end of what he referred to as a “charity-blowjob” and they’d had a short intense argument that had ended with a rare, and surprisingly mature, compromise, when Chris had wrapped his hand around the soft heat of Phil’s cock and, his eyes wide with a raw honesty, had whispered. “Please, give me this, let me see you come. Please, Phil, let me do this.” 

And even if Phil hadn’t been totally won over by the sweetly earnest entreaty, the swift twitch of his cock in Chris’s hand had almost instantly betrayed his consent. 

Now, all these months later they wear their marriage with the same easy comfort that had characterized their previous decade and a half of co-habitation. And, secure in the place they occupy in each other’s lives, Phil finds himself not even hesitating when he broaches the subject that has been niggling at the back of his mind for much of the evening. During the course of the reception Chris had spent a considerable amount of time in apparently serious conversation with Jim and now Phil slides a hand across his chest and asks mildly. 

“So, are you going to tell me when you’re planning to go out on the Enterprise?” 

****

Phil is in the middle of signing off on morbidity and mortality reports when the comm on his desk signals to let him know that there’s incoming traffic. The chime is Chris’s – the first two bars of Thin Lizzy’s “Whiskey in the Jar” – and Phil smiles as he shoves the pile of PADDs aside and taps open the comm, it’s a message rather than an actual open line, and it’s terse to the point of being brusque. 

[On my way home. ETA 19:30. Box!] 

It’s the final word that makes the hair on the back of Phil’s neck prickle. He knows _exactly_ which box Chris is referring to. It hasn’t seen the light of day in almost two years, neither of them willing to risk the potential rejection involved in asking for something that the other isn’t yet ready to deliver. And, god knows, it’s not like they’ve talked about it. Even given that their verbal communication skills have improved by orders of magnitude in the last few years – necessity fostering competence, if not active enthusiasm, in talking things through – broaching _any_ subject related to sex, especially the kind of edgy, unconventional sex that the box represents, has been problematic. So, wary of triggering anything in the minefield of Chris’s traumatized psyche, Phil has been very careful to make sure that sex has been unrelentingly safe, sane and consensual. Indeed, Phil realizes now, it had been positively fucking vanilla, until that night at the Fairmont, when Chris had pushed his physical limits and, now that Phil really thinks about it, had given Phil fair warning that he was ready to move on. The only question is why _now_ , why _tonight_.

Pausing for a moment, Phil chews absently on the end of a stylus as he mentally reviews the comms he’s had over the last few days. As worried as he had been about Chris going back to the Enterprise for the first time since the Narada crisis, he’d been reassured by the relatively upbeat nature of their conversations over the last three days. Excited about the successful trials of the new power couplings that would allow the phaser banks to draw directly on energy from the warp core, without risking potentially disastrous energy feedbacks, and apparently happy that he’d overseen the trials himself instead of delegating the job as Phil had suggested, Chris had been positively fucking cheerful. 

Now Phil wonders if that has all been a façade, if the constraints of public conversation and open channels have forced Chris into burying what he’s really feeling in the interests of maintaining his dignity and, once again, protecting Jim from what’s really going on – it wouldn’t be the first time. 

Alternatively, this really is Chris’s way of signaling that he’s ready to move on, ready to finally put that part of his life, and all its attendant bitterness, behind him. But Phil isn't going to know for sure until Chris is in front of him and he can assess his state of mind without having to parse through his well-developed public filter. 

Pushing his chair back, Phil shuts down his workstation and sweeps the assorted PADDs, styluses and data solids into the large, shallow, secured drawer that extends the length of his desk. Standing, he looks out of the fifth story window into the gray of an early winter evening and wonders just how cold it is out there. He could get a ground car from the motor pool to take him home, his rank permits him those kinds of privileges, but instead he elects the forty minute flashrail and ferry journey to give himself time to think before he walks into the apartment and has to actually prepare for Chris’s arrival. 

It turns out that it is damned cold, even for December in San Francisco, but the weather-screens on the main deck of the Marina Green to Sausalito ferry keep enough of the chilly damp at bay for Phil to risk sitting outside, facing the stern and watching the lights of the city recede as he sorts through how he’s going to deal with Chris’s desire to plunge back into the emotional and physical intensity of dominance and submission. 

In the distance he can see the pale blue glow of the illumination at the top of the newly restored Coit Tower, the roll of the ferry lending the illusion that the tower is slowly rising and falling as it recedes and then the black bulk of Alcatraz rises off the starboard beam and Phil shifts his gaze to the lights of the Starfleet high security communications facility that occupies the low buildings on the island – a facility, he thinks, that is only slightly less sinister in it’s current operations than the high security prison that had once graced the steep, rocky slopes. 

As the ferry slides silently by, its wake a silver trace against the dark water, Phil finally leans forward, his face in his hands and forces himself to think about what the rest of the evening is going to bring. He shivers, more in trepidation than cold, although in all honesty he knows that his tension is generated almost as much by anticipation as by fear. He’s missed this so very much, the feel of Chris bending to his will, pliant and obedient to his touch and his voice. The thought of it sends a quick tremor of need up his spine and it occurs to him that he’s going to have to be careful that his own desire doesn’t make him reckless; that he stays focused on what Chris needs tonight. There’s a sliver of irritation in that thought, and doesn't that make him feel like a total bastard, to be annoyed that so much of the last two years has been about what Chris needs. He’s irritated too by a sense that he should have seen this coming, the night of the Kirk-McCoy wedding had been fair warning that Chris was ready to push beyond the limits of sex that had become entirely too easy and comfortable. 

For the first six months after the Narada there had been no sex, Chris lacking the ability and Phil the desire, both of them relentlessly exhausted and still grieving, grateful that they had survived the worst personal losses, but struggling to deal with the physical and emotional toll of Chris’s very slow recovery. And when they had finally eased back together it had been with sex that was slow, almost tranquil, and infused with a terrifyingly unfamiliar tenderness that telegraphed more clearly than anything else just how profoundly their lives had changed. On the few occasions that either of them had tried to increase the intensity, to inject a little of their familiar edge into sex, it had ended badly – an unwary word or touch or sound triggering a cycle of panic and anger from Chris and of remorse and over-careful solicitousness from Phil – until they had quit trying. 

Phil sighs deeply, scrubbing his hands through his hair, and then leans against the bulkhead behind him, staring absently into the night as he sorts through what he thinks Chris is going to ask of him, and what he’s prepared to deliver. He is frankly just a little terrified that he’s going to fuck this up; that he really has no idea how to play this game anymore, at least no idea how to play it in a way that will give Chris what he needs. 

By the time the ferry pulls into the jetty at the Sausalito Marina Phil is a little calmer, the rudiments of a strategy clear in his mind. Depending on what Chris wants he may have to be a little flexible, but at the very least he has laid out a way to bring Chris down – to let him fly free of stress and tension for just a little while – without having to resort to physical discipline. Because that’s the one thing he is certain of, after all that has happened, pain isn’t a gift that he can give to Chris. Not now, not yet, perhaps not ever again. There is an ache in that knowledge, and just a little shame, to know that if pain is what Chris really needs that Phil can’t give that to him. He can only hope that pleasure, drawn out over long, lovingly intimate minutes, threaded through with unyielding possession and more love than could ever be expressed in words alone, is enough. Because that’s the only thing he can promise to deliver. 

****

When the front door opens an hour later Phil is ready, or at least as ready as he’s ever going to be given that he has no idea how this is going to go down tonight. But he’s prepared, as well as he’s able. 

Showered and dressed only a pair of light cotton sleep pants, he’s turned the apartment thermostat up enough that the air temperature will be comfortable on naked skin for hours. There’s a carafe of water on the end table, together with a glass of peppered vodka, that will come into play somewhere down the line, although Phil’s not quite sure when. The background music is low and sultry, with a deep, bluesy bass line that approximates the tempo of a heartbeat at rest and the lights are set at 10% with additional pools of illumination from the fireplace and from scattered candles that are in complete contravention of the condo association rules – naked flame is such a total no-no in any multi-dwelling living space in the 23rd century – but Phil really doesn’t give a shit. There is nothing that can substitute for the light of naked flame on skin and tonight he’s determined that everything that is within his control is going to be perfect. 

Stretched out in the chair that faces the floor to ceiling windows – that are currently opaque, because regardless of how difficult it might be to overlook this 16th floor apartment, he’s sure as hell not going to take any risks given what he has planned for tonight – Phil tenses as he hears the distinctive _shush_ of the front door and focuses his attention on the redwood box that he has set, still closed, on the coffee table. Leaving it closed is a risk; in the past that has always been a signal that one of them isn’t willing to play, but Phil knows that Chris is smart enough to figure out that the mere presence of the box indicates that he’s at least ready to talk about opening it. 

For a moment there is silence and then Chris comes near enough to see the box – Phil can sense him even with his back to the door – and his breath hitches in a soft and unmistakably needy inhale. The sound of it is enough to send a shiver of reciprocal need vibrating through Phil’s body. It has been so, _so_ very long since they’ve been able to indulge in this dark and sweetly heady pleasure, that Phil has almost forgotten how much of the thrill of it is in the anticipation. 

Without even looking behind him, Phil raises one hand and Chris takes it, coming around to sit on the edge of the coffee table and Phil watches carefully, rubbing his thumb gently across Chris’s knuckles. 

“You okay?” 

Chris looks up and Phil is surprised that he’s smiling. It’s a little rueful, a little unsure, but it’s a real smile and there’s a stubborn certainty in his face that is so very typical of Chris – clearly determined that he’s going to push through his fears, whatever the cost to both of them. 

“I’m okay.” 

“So this…” Phil tilts his head in the direction of the box, “…is about moving on?” 

“Yeah, it’s time.” Chris sounds confident, but Phil isn’t so sure. There is a tremor in Chris’s fingers, and Phil knows it’s not physiological – the neurological effects of the slug toxin were cleared out of Chris’s system months ago – and he slides one finger across Chris’s wrist, the rapid flutter of his pulse betraying all of his tension and anxiety. 

It’s abundantly obvious that there is more going on here than Chris’s professed desire to put the Enterprise and all she represents behind him and Phil strokes his fingers gently back and forth across the fine bones of Chris’s wrist, choosing his words very carefully as he holds Chris’s gaze. “I need you to be honest with me.” 

There’s a long moment of silence as Chris looks away, tension written in the set of his jaw, in the slight catch in his breathing and in the sudden stiffness of his body. Phil just waits, nothing if not patient, continuing to stroke two fingertips across that soft, smooth patch of skin until Chris finally faces him once more, a hint of fear shadowing his eyes. “I need this Phil, I need you to make me feel safe.” And he raises a hand, pressing his fingers across Phil’s lips to silence him so that he can finish uninterrupted. 

“No, I’m not as good as I might like to think. It scared the shit out of me being back on that bridge. And I had to hide it every moment I was up there.” Chris is voice is rough with emotion and he’s speaking just a little too fast as if he needs to spill this out in one rapid purge before he loses his nerve. Phil’s fingers tighten on the wrist that is still in his hand, squeezing a reassurance even as he curls his other hand around the back of Chris’s neck and strokes his fingers into the soft, slightly-too-long curls at his nape, and waits silently for the rest. 

“I’ll talk this through, I promise. I’ve already set up a meeting with Aditi, but I can’t do that right now. I can’t talk about it, I can’t think about it. I need you to make this all go away, just for a few hours.” There is a long pause, and Phil resists interrupting, watching as Chris clearly struggles with whatever he’s about to say next; watching as his eyes close for a moment as he gathers his courage to go on and whisper. “Please, _please_ can you do that for me?” 

Chris doesn’t beg, _ever_ at least not like this, earnest and achingly sincere and Phil draws his husband close for a moment, keeping one hand on the back of his neck, the other marking a firm, gentle path up and down his spine as he takes a moment to will away the wave of sorrow at the desperation in Chris’s voice. 

“Shhh…it’s okay, it’s okay, I’ll do whatever you need. You know that.” 

It’s a lie and Phil suspects they both know it. There are so many things he can’t do for Chris right now, but he puts that thought aside as he tightens his fingers gently on the back of Chris’s neck, telegraphing his approval at the news that Chris has already contacted his psych counselor. One of the few ways in which Chris is gratifyingly more mature than most of his peers in Command is in his willingness to avail himself of the services of the psych division when he needs them. 

He’s worked with the same counselor for over twenty years. Aditi Sengupta knows him through and through, knows the way his mind works, knows all the things in his past that trigger fear and panic and grief and anger. She even – Phil suspects – knows all the tricks Chris uses to release the stress when it becomes too much, including this profoundly intimate dance of dominance and submission that they are about to engage in tonight. It’s a little disconcerting, if he thinks about it too closely, but she’s enough of a professional that she’s never even hinted that she knows their deeper shared secrets. 

Still stroking the back of Chris’s neck, the touch a little firmer now, working the tension out of the taut cords of muscle and tendon, Phil rests their foreheads together and collects his thoughts for a moment before whispering, “Okay, we can do this, but we do it my way. Chris, I know you want this tonight – but you have to trust me. There are things…” now it’s Phil’s turn to stumble, and he pauses to reframe what he’s saying, taking a long breath to steady his voice as he goes on. “…we can’t just step back into this as if nothing has happened.” 

“I know. But I don’t want some long renegotiation of rules and limits and boundaries – not now, please, _please_ just take me down. I trust you, whatever you do, please just take me under.” There’s that edge of supplication in Chris’s voice again and, as reluctant as Phil is to dive into this without any substantial conversation, he’s moved by the genuinely miserable undertone of Chris’s request and, against his better judgment, he capitulates with just a brief caution. 

“Okay, no negotiation, but I need one promise from you.” He watches as Chris tilts his head, wary and uncertain until Phil goes on. “You _will_ use your safe word if you need to tonight. I want none of that fucking cowboy bravado that you’re so good at.” Chris is motionless, still wary as Phil finishes with a sincerely delivered warning. “I need to be able to trust you with this, so much has changed that I don’t know what will hurt you any more. Don’t put me in that position, please, promise me you’ll be honest.” The words feel harsh and almost cruel as Phil says them, but Chris nods his acquiescence and lays a hand on Phil’s chest, stroking across his heart. 

“I promise.” 

Then Chris surprises Phil by taking the initiative, shifting his head so he can brush his lips tentatively against Phil’s. It takes Phil a moment to regain his equilibrium and then he takes the hint, claiming Chris’s mouth like a sacrificial offering, sinking his tongue deep, making it abundantly clear that he’s in control and his heart stutters as Chris surrenders. Phil draws the kiss out in long, slow, sweet touches, his authority clear – fingers firm on the back of Chris’s neck, holding him in place – but softened by the deep sensuality of the embrace. When they finally separate, both breathing a little too hard, Phil is persuaded that perhaps this is going to be okay, and he strokes a hand firmly up Chris’s cheek, the burn of late evening stubble rough against his fingers. 

“Okay, we’ll do this.” He presses his thumb to the soft full swell of Chris’s lower lip, smiling a little as Chris teases the tip with his tongue, and then continues, “Go shower, I want you back here in ten minutes, naked.” Phil holds Chris’s gaze for a long moment before he goes on. “And Chris, when you come back, bring the other box.” He’s gratified at the sudden hitch of breath and the way Chris’s eyes go dark with lust. At least this hasn’t changed, Chris’s visceral response to _that_ tone in Phil’s voice and the way he drops his head a fraction and looks up through his lashes makes Phil ache with a sweetly fierce tenderness. 

“Good boy.” Phil has to work hard to keep his voice even; aware of just how much trust Chris is demonstrating right now. 

It’s only when Phil opens the box that he realizes how little of the contents he can use tonight. No instruments of discipline, no restraints, not even the lengths of dark red silk that he used to bind Chris for the first time, so many years ago. They’ve come out occasionally since, when tenderness or nostalgia have required a gentler touch than their customary dance along the knife-edge of possession and control, but tonight he’s not about to risk binding Chris with anything other than his voice. He even passes over the varied and inventive selection of toys that have given them so much pleasure over the years. He’s pretty sure they’ll see the light of day sometime soon, but tonight he doesn't want to touch Chris with anything but warm, living flesh – his hands, his mouth, his cock and in the end the only thing he takes out is a pair of cock-rings. Determined that he’s going to make this last until Chris is a whimpering sweat-soaked mess, begging for release, Phil’s not sure either of them will be able to keep from coming without something to keep them just shy of the edge. 

With his eye on the chrono embedded in the vid screen above the fireplace Phil is gratified when the bedroom door opens with a full ninety seconds to spare, and Chris emerges, naked and damp, carefully carrying a flat dark leather box in one hand. This is Phil’s gamble for tonight, eschewing traditional forms of restraint in favour of reminding Chris just how completely Phil owns him, and in doing so, reminding him also that he is absolutely, unreservedly safe. It’s not in Phil’s power to protect Chris every moment of the day, but he knows that within these walls, in these dreadfully brief reprieves when reality can be suspended in the interstices of their everyday lives, he can give Chris a priceless sense of security that makes all the other stresses and uncertainties of his life bearable. 

With a beckoning finger Phil motions Chris over and settles himself a little more comfortably in the chair, straightening up and widening his legs to provide a space for Chris to sink down between his knees. It’s not the most graceful descent Chris has ever made, but Phil restrains the impulse to reach out a steadying hand and just lays his hand palm up to take the box from Chris. 

“Open it.” He deliberately keeps his voice low, softening the command and Chris complies, flicking the catch open and lifting the lid. It may not have seen the light of day in several years, but the microfiber lining and airtight seal on the box have kept the collar pristine and supple, the black leather giving off a dull shine in the soft light and the sight of it makes both of them draw a sharp breath. 

“Yes?” This is the only time Phil will give Chris a choice tonight, but he needs to be sure and he watches carefully, slipping his fingers down to Chris’s throat, resting them over his pulse spot as Chris gives him an almost imperceptible nod before confirming that this is what he wants. “Yes.” 

Once the collar is secured – just tight enough that it provides only the slightest restriction when Chris swallows – Phil spends a long time stroking his fingertips around it’s smooth rolled edges, relishing the feel of the leather, every so often straying to touch the silky texture of Chris’s just-shaved skin, the soft warm hollows under his jaw, the smooth curve of his throat. 

“You are _exquisite_.” Phil leans in, his voice a velvet-dark whisper against Chris’s temple. “And you are _mine_. My boy, my gorgeous, valiant, dutiful boy.” A brush of his lips against damp skin before he goes on, “And you will always, _always_ be safe with me.” He feels the sudden shiver as Chris begins to relax and kisses him again before ordering. “Go kneel in front of the fire. I want to watch you get hard thinking about what we’re going to do tonight, thinking about what I’m going to do to you. I want you to kneel there without moving, without speaking, without looking at me until I’m ready to take you to bed.” 

He’d rearranged the furniture slightly before Chris came home, the coffee table pushed back against the couch to create a wider space in front of the fire and his own chair shifted slightly so that when Chris settles onto the rug, he’s in light rather than shadow, the better to be observed. 

Despite his professed desire to watch Chris get hard, Phil had intended to try to distract himself with his PADD for a while, with work, or a vid or even a novel. But it takes less than ten minutes for his attention to wander and he lays the PADD aside; the man kneeling on the soft, dark shag-pile rug in front of the fire is just too stunning to ignore. Taking a slow, measured sip of the vodka Phil settles back into the chair, his feet pulled up under him and lets his gaze wander deliberately up and down the expanse of fire-lit skin. 

It’s been so hard to find this kind of time over the last few years; time to appreciate what they have together, what they _are_ together and Phil tunes out everything except the exquisitely poised form that is kneeling – silent and still and obedient – on the rug. With his head tilted down the flicker of the firelight is striking highlights of silver, and a surprisingly liberal sprinkle of gold, in Chris’s hair and drawing intricate patterns of light and dark on his body. The underlay of the summer’s not-entirely-faded tan lends his skin to shades of honey and ochre and a deep bronze and emphasizes the broad flexed muscles of his chest and thighs and the shadowed ridges of his abdomen. It’s been a long time since Phil has made Chris wait for him like this, the silence stretching endlessly, the roles of watcher and watched ratcheting up the erotic tension for both of them and slowly, so very slowly, Phil feels the stir of blood pooling in his groin even as he watches the gradual twitch and fill of Chris’s cock as he remains motionless, hands clasped behind his back, head bowed. 

At first the tremors are nothing more than tiny shudders that Phil writes off as muscle spasms triggered by such a sustained period of immobility. It’s not until Chris actually moves, shifting his knees in clear discomfort that Phil begins to understand that there’s something more serious going on. Under normal circumstances, collared and bound to Phil’s will, Chris wouldn’t move a fraction of a centimeter once he’d received an order to remain still. 

“Look at me, Chris.” 

Chris lifts his head, but for a long heartbeat he resists actually meeting Phil’s gaze, looking past him, focusing on some point against the far wall, his jaw clenched tight as if he’s physically fighting down whatever anxiety is tormenting him. 

“No, Chris. Look at me.” Phil’s voice is softer than his words, trying to ignore his own sense of disquiet as he realizes that he may no longer know how to make this work for them. It’s a terrifying thought, that they might have lost this forever, and it takes a real effort of will for Phil to push through the unease and insist again, quiet and steadfast. 

“Look at me.” 

When Chris finally meets his gaze the unrelieved misery in his eyes makes Phil take a sharp breath and pause for a long space, consciously reminding himself not to break the mood and resort to comfort and consolation. Whatever distress Chris is exhibiting is only going to be magnified if Phil ends this too soon and slides back into over-solicitous concern. 

“Come here.” His voice is firm, almost stern; no room for Chris to even hesitate in his obedience and to Phil’s deep relief Chris immediately shuffles the short distance on his knees. As he’s moving Phil can see that whatever arousal he’d been exhibiting earlier has waned, his cock lax and soft, the glans fully sheathed in his foreskin. 

“Tell me. Now.” 

Chris’s breath is hitching – sharp, tight inhales and shivering exhales – and Phil softens enough to lay a hand on his head, stroking his fingers through hair that is damp with nervous sweat. “It’s okay, you’re doing great, now just tell me what has you so miserable.” 

A shiver quakes down through Chris’s body and Phil can see the tension in the bunched muscles of his shoulders and back. He gently tugs on Chris’s hair, forcing him to lift his head and meet his gaze. “Tell me.” A quick look down confirms that Chris is shaking, fine tremors running through the fingers that are resting on his thighs and Phil rubs his thumb gently along the edge of the collar, reminding Chris that he’s safe. It takes an immense effort of will to control the tremor in his own hands, the nervous shiver at the thought that he’s fucked this up, that Chris’s pain is a consequence of Phil triggering some dark, as yet unrevealed, truth from his captivity. 

It takes another few seconds before Chris speaks, and when he does his voice is uncharacteristically hesitant, the tone saturated with a wretched mortification. 

“When I was strapped to that table, I was there for so damned long, no idea how many hours. I just know as time went on I needed to piss so badly and then…” he looks away and Phil gently, firmly, grips Chris’s chin and turns his head back until their eyes meet once more. There’s such a deep well of shame and humiliation in Chris’s eyes that Phil almost capitulates, almost pulls him in close. But thinks he’s beginning to understand what has Chris so distraught and, if he’s right, sympathy is the last thing that Chris needs in this moment; he needs to face this, to push through it and be able to put it behind him. “Then one of them hit me with some kind of low-intensity disruptor, the kind that fucks with your neural functions.” Chris takes one more brief pause as he draws a deep breath and then says it out loud. “And I fucking pissed myself.” 

He closes his eyes, his entire body rigid with distress and Phil pauses before he responds, taking a deep breath even as he curves his hand over the crown of Chris’s head, stroking gently through his hair. 

“And now you need to piss? That’s what this is about?” 

Chris nods once, sharply and Phil leans over to kiss the top of his head. “Okay. Time out.” He reaches for the key and swiftly uncouples the tiny silver lock on the collar, sliding it off and laying it on the coffee table, putting an end to their powerplay at least for the moment. 

“We’ll take care of your need to piss in a minute. But first, you need to know that you couldn’t possibly have stopped your body from reacting like that – you know that right? That disruptor shorted the neural pathways to your urinary sphincter, regardless of how badly you needed to go, pissing yourself was inevitable in that situation.” 

“I know. You think I haven’t fucking _told_ myself that over and over again?” Chris rubs his head against Phil’s palm, seeking comfort before he goes on. “But every time the need to piss starts to get urgent, all I can fucking think about is being on that table.” 

And now Phil does pull Chris in close, sliding forward so that he’s wrapped around the trembling body, understanding that he has to do something to break the association of an otherwise perfectly normal physiological sensation with the fear and powerlessness of Chris’ fourteen hours of captivity. 

“I take it this isn’t something you’ve discussed with Aditi?” 

“You think?” The sarcasm in Chris’s tone is a welcome sign that he’s not quite as distressed as he initially appears and the release of nervous tension almost makes Phil laugh. “Well, maybe that’s something else you should think about bringing up when you see her next.” He draws back, and starts to push himself up out of the chair, smiling at Chris’s perplexed look. “Stay there, I think we can find a way to make you look at pissing a little more positively.” 

The perplexed expression turns to overtly skeptical when Phil comes back into the room carrying the urinal that’s been stored in the bottom of the linen cabinet for the last two years. Phil knows that for Chris it has to be a very unwelcome reminder of the days and nights he spent confined to bed or the couch as the bio-chemical remediation therapy worked its magic removing the slug toxins from his spinal fluid. Four separate treatments, each three months apart, the alkylating agent almost as toxic as the slug’s secretions, with consequently horrendous side-effects; nausea, headaches, hyper-sensitivity to light and sound and touch, and above all almost unbearable joint pain, all of which had made walking to the bathroom impossible for days at a time. 

“This is supposed to help?” 

“Trust me.” Phil’s amazed at the confidence with which he manages to utter those two crucial words – because he has absolutely no idea if what he has planned is going to work. He’s not even sure how the hell he thought of it, or of whether he’ll even be able to pull off his own part of the scenario. This isn’t something he’s ever done before. 

Fortunately Chris does trust him and Phil slides himself down onto the floor behind him, wrapping one arm around his chest, and resting his chin on Chris’s shoulder. 

“Now, just relax.” The hand that is flat against the midline of Chris’s abdomen slides lower until Phil curls his fingers around the soft heat of Chris’s cock, and he slides the urinal into place with the other hand. “I mean it, relax, dammit.” Phil breathes the whisper against Chris’s ear and then smiles as he feels the moment the tension eases and Chris lets go; the unmistakable sound of a strong stream of piss hitting the inside wall of the bottle. 

“Fuck…” there’s a genuine undertone of humour in Chris’s voice that makes Phil smile again, “…that feels fucking great.” 

When the stream finally peters out, Phil lays the urinal aside and, with his chin still resting on Chris’s shoulder, both of them watch as he slides two fingers up the underside of Chris’s prick and swipes a couple of stray drops off the tip. And then, before he thinks too closely about what he’s doing – the physician side of him is well aware that urine is sterile when it’s excreted, but he’s still cringing internally – he sucks the fingers into his mouth. Chris has his head turned just far enough to see what Phil has done and his eyes are gratifyingly wide as Phil grins and slowly withdraws his fingers, licking across the knuckles before he clarifies his meaning. 

“Next time you need to piss, think about _that_.” 

A swift shiver ripples up Chris’s body and he holds Phil’s gaze even as he takes the damp fingers and sucks them between his lips, wrapping his tongue around them, demonstrating that he understands perfectly. The wet, slick heat sends a thrum of sensation through Phil’s cock and he holds Chris a little tighter as he asks. 

“Do you want to try again? Or do you want to end this and go fuck quietly in bed?” 

Chris releases Phil’s fingers. “Again, please.” And he picks up the collar, handing it to Phil who slides it back into place around his neck. 

Standing and picking up the urinal so he can dispose of the contents Phil nods, “Okay, but this time I want you right by me, where I can touch you.” Phil indicates a spot at the side of his chair and when Chris is settled he rubs his hand gently through his hair. “Stay there, I’ll be right back.” 

When he pauses to wash his hands, Phil looks at himself in the mirror above the sink in the master bath and for a moment allows the deep sense of unease and uncertainty that he’s feeling to wash through him. The thought that he can’t give Chris what he needs is almost unbearable and he grips the sides of the vanity hard, taking a deep steadying breath as he begins to understand that Chris is desperate for this relief and he’s the only one that can provide it. Phil’s not surprised that Chris wants to push through this, he’s determined to a fault but he still isn’t sure that he’s going to succeed in taking Chris all the way down. Subspace is a hard state for Chris to reach under the best of circumstances, which these aren’t – no restraints, no physical discipline, no toys – and Phil is beginning to realize that the only way he’s going to get Chris there is to engage in an act so intimate and intense that they very, very rarely go there. 

And for that both of them are going to have to be very relaxed and very, very aroused. 

Settled back in his chair, Phil sips occasionally at the vodka and teases Chris with it, dipping a finger into the glass and then sliding the digit between Chris’s lips, reveling in the slick heat as Chris suckles eagerly on it. For a long time Phil is the only one who speaks, quiet words of love and ownership, reminding Chris constantly with his voice, and with gently possessive touches, where he is and why he’s being made to wait so patiently. 

“You’re being really good, Chris.” Phil drags his nails lightly down the line of Chris’s spine. “Really patient, such a good boy.” A finger trails teasingly around the collar… “So good, just waiting for me.” …and down over Chris’s clavicle, Phil spreading his hand out flat to slide it down through the soft fur that covers Chris’s chest. “When I’m ready, when I think _you’re_ ready I’m going to make you feel so good.” 

He lets his voice drop a little lower, warm and rich and soft as he skims his fingers across a nipple, pausing to scrape a nail against the peaked flesh, feeling Chris shiver as he tries to contain a tight, fast breath. 

“I‘m going to own you.” A brush of fingertips up over the curve of Chris’s shoulder, and then back down to tug gently on the silver plaque that hangs from the D-ring of the collar – long since inscribed on both sides, Phil’s initials on one side, Chris’s on the other, smaller and centered beneath a simply etched “mine”. 

“I’m going to overwhelm you.” Phil is leaning in now, his breath stirring the untidy curls at Chris’s temple. 

“I’m going to make you take my cock…” a soft kiss on damp skin. “…my fingers…” And Chris shudders as if he knows what’s coming next, his patient anticipation making Phil ache with love and pride as he finishes the thought. “…my whole fucking fist.” 

And when he finally says it aloud both of them shudder and Phil feels his cock throb with the kind of intensity that reminds him of being fifteen again. He gently tugs Chris’s head back and a glance down the length of his torso reveals that Chris is hard and dripping, his cock a thick, dark brand against the paler skin of his abdomen. 

“Time to go to bed, darling boy.” 

****

Phil had taken the time earlier to prep the bed, the quilt thrown off and a couple of thick, soft towels laid down to cover the sheets and he has Chris lie on his back, fingers wrapped around the bars of the headboard, a folded towel under his hips. 

“That’s good, just like that, hold onto the bed for me, don’t let go, whatever I do, just hold on and trust me.” Kneeling at Chris’s side, Phil strokes his hands firmly up and down the length of Chris’s torso, feeling the long muscles relax even as Chris whines slightly each time Phil’s knuckles brush against the underside of his cock. It’s clear that he’s very, very close to losing control and Phil relents, securing a quick release cock-ring around Chris’s balls and the base of his shaft, to ease the tension. Chris utters another, needier, whimper and Phil strokes up the inside of his thigh. 

“Hush, not done with you yet. Don’t worry, nowhere close to done with you.” Phil’s voice is soft and intimate, the promise of so much more pleasure yet to come making both of them shiver with the intensity of it. It’s been so long since they’ve been able to indulge in this achingly sweet release that Phil has to pause for a moment as the thick rush of blood in his veins makes his cock throb sweetly and he realizes that he hasn’t been this hard, this ready to come on a hair-trigger in more years than he can remember. After a moment’s consideration he slides the other cock-ring onto his own length, not entirely sure that he has the mental fortitude to keep himself from coming the moment he slides any part of his anatomy into Chris’s soft, supple heat. 

He spends an age working Chris’s body, using his hands and the seeping heat of a contact-warming body oil to work every muscle to boneless relaxation, leaning down every so often to flicker his tongue across the twitching tip of Chris’s bound cock. It has to be torture, but as Chris continues to shiver and whine, Phil can see him slowly withdrawing into that space where he is totally submerged in the exquisite sensations that Phil is creating. 

“That’s it, that’s my boy” Phil keeps his voice very low and when he’s sure that Chris is getting lost in a haze of heat and sex and overwhelming arousal he slides one slick finger against the tight furl of his hole. Chris bucks into the touch and Phil adds a second finger, pressing against the fluttering muscle with both, circling firmly until the muscle yields and his fingers slide in deep, all the way to knuckles. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck…it feels so good, a slippery, supple, furnace that flexes around Phil’s fingers even as Chris gives one long, low moan of aching need and his eyes glaze over. 

“Oh yes, so good at giving yourself to me – so perfectly fucking _mine_.” Phil can’t contain the low growl in his voice, the timbre that reveals just how profoundly he needs this control, how much he’s missed it, how deeply he’s had to bury any hint of his own desires over the last two years. “Fuck you’re so tight, so good, you feel so unbelievably hot and sweet around my fingers.” He twists and spreads his fingers in the tight, slippery passage, easing in and out with increasing speed until he slips a third into the tight space and begins to stretch Chris in earnest. By the time Phil has worked a fourth finger past the stretched sphincter his own arousal is becoming painfully distracting and, as much as he might hate himself for it he knows he’s going to have to give in to the overwhelming need to fuck Chris now, or risk stroking out when he finally gets around to sliding his entire fist deep into that hot, slippery vise. 

He pulls his fingers out, laying his hand flat on the flexing muscles of Chris’s belly for a moment and then reaches down to flick open the cock ring that has him so painfully constrained. 

“ ‘m gonna fuck you now.” It comes out as a ragged pant and Phil takes a long breath to steady himself. “I have to gorgeous boy, you’re so good, so perfect, I can’t hold it anymore.” 

Chris is well past verbal by now and he just arches into Phil’s touch, apparently just enough control left to use his powerful abdominal muscles to pull his legs up a little higher so Phil can wrap one around his waist and lift the other until the calf is resting on his shoulder. 

It’s been years since Phil has come on the first stroke, but as he punches home and slides deep, his balls coming to rest against Chris’s ass he feels the unmistakable heart-rush of orgasm, spiraling out along his nerves, every muscle drawn tight as his cock jumps in uncontrollable spasms. He’s within a heartbeat of blacking-out, breath coming in fast, hard gasps as he falls forward, supporting himself on one arm, his forehead resting against Chris’s thigh. 

“Fuck, Chris, fuck…” Minutes later, his breath is still coming in deep shuddering sobs, but Phil can feel the tremors shivering through Chris, as he twists and arches under Phil’s weight, nothing audible but a low, keening whine. “Okay, just give me a second, just a second.” 

It takes quite a bit longer than a second for Phil to disengage, waiting for his heart to settle a little before he sits back on his heels and wraps one hand around the firm heat of Chris’s genitals. He slides three fingers of his free hand back into the stretched and much, much slicker mess in Chris’s ass and then times his next move very carefully. Adding a fourth finger, and then tucking his thumb into his palm to create a wedge with his hand he pushes in gently but firmly and just as the widest part of his fist breaches Chris’s sphincter Phil flicks the fastening of the cock-ring and pulls Chris’s cock flush against his own belly. He watches, rapt, as Chris screams and arches off the bed, coming in a hot, thick fountain, that sends viscous arcs of translucent come into the lush cover of silver curls on Phil’s chest. 

Phil watches for a long time, barely moving except to withdraw his hand, wiping off the lube and come on a towel, and then stroking his other hand soothingly over Chris’s chest. When Chris finally opens his eyes, they are clear and lucid and just a little sleepy. “Wow, I needed that.” 

“Yeah, I think we both did.” Phil leans in for a brief kiss. “Are you okay?” 

Chris nods, and gives a shivering stretch before he concedes, “Yeah, I’m good, really good…just really, really tired.” 

“Not surprised, that took a lot out of me, I can’t imagine what it did to you.” Phil stretches up to the head of the bed and pulls a pillow into place under Chris’s head. “Get some rest, I’ll stay until you fall asleep.” It’s too early for Phil to sleep yet, but he curls up next to Chris and smiles at the contented noise that Chris makes as he buries his face against Phil’s chest. 

“You smell like I came on you.” 

“You did, you don’t remember that part?” 

Chris laughs sleepily. “I don’t remember anything after you stretched my ass with your entire fucking fist.” And he gives another contented sigh. “We need to do that more often.” 

Phil thinks about how close he came to a coronary in the last hour and shakes his head fondly. “You’ll be the fucking death of me, you know that don’t you?” 

****

Chris doesn’t sleep for nearly as long as Phil thinks he’s going to, appearing only a few hours later at the door to the living room, still tousled and a little sleep-worn, naked but for a pair of Phil’s jersey cotton boxers. There is something so comfortably casual about the way he stands, leaning on the doorframe for a moment before he comes across the floor and sinks down onto the rug at Phil’s feet, leaning back against his legs. 

“You never cease to amaze me.” Phil brushes his fingers through the messy curls until Chris looks up at him. 

“Why? Because I love you enough to figure out that what we have is more important than a ship? That _you_ are more important than a ship.” Chris turns, making himself comfortable, chin propped on the forearm that is resting on Phil’s knees, and he’s suddenly very, very serious. “You always have been, you know that, don't you?” 

“Yes.” Phil doesn't hesitate for a second even though it’s something of a white lie. There have been occasions, albeit not often, and not recently, when he hasn’t been at all sure where he falls in the hierarchy of Chris’s priorities, but he’s always understood, at some level, that the occasional misunderstandings were more a function of their mutual poor communication skills than any genuine confusion on Chris’s part about where his priorities lay. 

“Good. I know I haven’t always been good about saying it, but you are my life and, as much as I hated having the Enterprise taken from me like that, I know that this, what we have now, is probably better for us.” He slides a hand up Phil’s thigh and Phil meets him half way, linking their fingers and squeezing gently. He’s right, Phil knows exactly how hard it would have been for them to coexist again as Captain and Chief Medical Officer for five years but for Chris to acknowledge it, to actually say aloud that they are better off as a couple without the Enterprise, makes Phil unbearably proud of him and he wraps a hand around the back of his neck and pulls him into a long, sweet, kiss that is spiced with only the barest trace of heat. 

They separate slowly and Chris climbs up onto the couch, wriggling until he can lie with his head in Phil’s lap, smiling as Phil cards his fingers through his hair. “I think we need some down time. I’ve taken leave for the next few days – can you get away?” 

Phil sighs and drops his head against the back of the couch. “Damn, yes. That sounds great. What have you got in mind?” 

“The ranch is free – Mom’s at Meredith’s while Dad is fucking around with that corruption crisis out on Starbase 16.” 

“Oh yeah…hot tub sex.” Phil grins at the look of anticipation on Chris’s face and then they are both laughing as Chris reaches up for another kiss and whispers. “The ranch it is then.” 

_fin_


End file.
